


The Gyrfalcon

by shibarifan01



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Leather, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-21
Updated: 2013-06-30
Packaged: 2017-12-15 16:47:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,595
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/851778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shibarifan01/pseuds/shibarifan01
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When the owner of a leather bar is threatened, John has to enter into the fray and pose as a temp worker in the bar.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Finch is overwhelmed by John in leather - smut ensues eventually - though not in the first chapter. John will make many interesting acquaintances and Finch will not be too happy. Nothing much more than that. A little smut, a bit of crack, just a little fun fic to pass the time during our imposed hiatus. A few chapters long - not sure how many just yet.

 

When he arrived at the library that morning, Finch was surprised to see John already sprawled on one of the old beat-up couches, seemingly fascinated by the book he was reading, a coffee cup held loosely in his long-fingered hand. “Careful, Mr. Reese, that your cup doesn’t runneth over,” said Finch, happy with his literary pun, as he disentangled himself from his computer bag and Bear’s leash, leaving the dog free to roam in the large, gloomy room. A steaming cup of tea was already set at a perfect angle with his keyboard. He sat with a sigh of pleasure as he lifted it and its aroma wafted toward him “And thank you for your kind attention”, he added, pleased indeed at the idea that John would go out of his way to bring him his tea in the morning.

Finch flipped open his monitors and started interrogating his databases, waiting for the Machine to engage and start its habitual routine. It did not take long for it to spew out a number. “Well, Mr. Reese, here I thought we’d have a free day but the Machine has just given me a number for a Fred Wendle with an address on 8th Avenue in Chelsea.  I should have a bit more inf… Oh, here it is.”

John had gotten up when Finch mentioned the new number, had closed his book, _Habitat and Mating Customs of North American Birds_ , and walked the few steps that separated him from Finch’s station in his customary long-legged gait, the one that advertised “I may look a bit indolent like that, but inside I am coiled as tight as a boa constrictor, and I’m just about as lethal.”

“Eighth Avenue in Chelsea, Finch, isn’t that where most of New York’s leather bars are located?” asked John. “Well, Mr. Reese,” answered Finch with a mystified look, “I frankly could not tell you as these are not, as you can rightly imagine, institutions which I customarily frequent.”

“We usually get the home address, but if it is a bar, the guy may very well be living upstairs from the bar in question, I know that’s how some bar owners like to set it up so they can keep an eye on the premises,” said John, thoughtfully, to which Finch replied “Well, you seem to know much more about it than I do, Mr. Reese…” leaving his answer trail in a manner that almost begged for an answer.

When none was forthcoming, Finch continued: “Mr. Wendle’s finances appear in good, though not stellar condition – mind you, it’s rare that bars are managed thoroughly within the strict limits of the law, but I see nothing untoward to far, his employees are paid regularly and even have some sort of benefits package. He seems to have ten regular employees and a handful of part-time ones. He is single, in his late forties, no ex-wives or children, no pending lawsuits. I wonder what could be the problem.”

“Well, Finch, if he owns a leather bar, I doubt he’d have either a wife or children,” said Reese, as if the matter was self-evident.

“Hmmm… stranger things have happened Mr. Reese. Outward appearances can sometimes be very deceiving!” said Finch, his eyes roaming over his various monitors.

It took another fifteen minutes or so for Finch to have a complete profile of the day’s number who, in fact, did own a leather bar, named The Gyrfalcon.  Finch was also able to detect a high level of threats to Mr. Wendle but for all his hard work, could not identify where they came from or who was doing the threatening. After two more hours of searching, Harold was very irritated – he had not been able to make inroads into the matter.

In the meantime, John had been pacing the length of the library floor, sometimes throwing the ball to Bear who liked nothing more than to tear down the hallway, catch the ball and run back to John, at which point the whole rigmarole would start again… Annoyed at the noise and the commotion, Finch was about to throw either the ball or John out the window when he finally made up his mind.

“Well, Mr. Reese, I seem to have hit a snag at my end and I think we are going to have to take another tack to try and find where the threats to our Mr. Wendle are coming from.”

This had a way of stopping John mid-movement and that’s how Finch saw him a second later as he turned to seek John out. His arm was up and back, the ball between his finger, one foot lightly off the ground, and Bear was caught almost in mid-jump. It made Finch’s heart leap at the strength John displayed, and at the symbiosis he had with his dog. But then the moment passed and John approached Finch’s desk.  “What do you have in mind, Finch?” he asked, looking at Harold inquisitively.

“Well, I think we really need a set of eyes inside that bar, and someone to get close to our Mr. Wendle in order to both protect him and detect the problem, Mr. Reese,” Finch mentioned, an expectant look in his blue eyes.

“Finch, don’t even think about it!” said John. “Just, no Finch, no! Come on, I’m sure we can come up with another plan. Can’t you send Fusco?”

“Really, Mr. Reese? Detective Fusco in a leather bar? Now I will never be able to unsee the image that just now sprung up in my brain. And somehow, I don’t think he would, shall we say, blend convincingly in that environment, do you? Of course, any of the women we know, either detective Carter or your friend Zoe, are out of the question.  Unless you see me as a possible patron of the Gyrfalcon?”

At John’s horrified expression, Harold continued “I didn’t think so… though the name is somewhat appealing!”

“Finch, you’re not setting foot there, it’s absolutely out of the question! And you’re right, neither Fusco, nor Leon could do it, but Finch, isn’t there another way?” John stopped as he clearly heard himself start to whine.

John went to sit dejectedly back on the couch across from Finch. “Mr. Reese, if there was any other way, we would not be sending you in this kind of place but you can see as well as I do that it’s probably our only option.  Furthermore, you already have the motorcycle, I’m sure you have the boots to go with it, and we can get you fitted with…

“There’ll be no fittings, Harold, thank you very much,” said John in his low, gravelly voice, remembering some earlier fittings. Getting fitted for leather chaps would make him extremely uncomfortable and besides, he already had what he needed. “I’m sure I can rustle up something halfway convincing,” he added, to which Finch lifted an eyebrow.

“Well, I’ve just arranged for you to work the ten-to-closing shift for the next few days as a temp, Mr. Reese. Your interactions with the patrons will be limited as you’re going in for replenishing and clean-up work, but that should give you easy access to the whole place which includes the bar, a restaurant, a massage salon, and a sauna. I did not know there were such things as temp agencies for leather bar workers… I must say I’m always amazed at what you can find on the Net,” said Harold bemusedly. “Oh, and make sure you come by the library before you go to the Gyrfalcon, Mr. Reese, just to make sure you are as convincing as you think you are… sometimes an extra set of eyes works wonders and an excess of self-satifaction might prove detrimental to our goal! After all, we wouldn’t want you to go into the fray half-cocked…”

“Yeah, yeah Finch, sure, and don’t worry, I never go anywhere half-cocked!” smirked John as he left the library to run a few errands and then go home and change after a few hours’ sleep.

**

Nine thirty that night saw John enter the library after having left his bike at the door. That motorcycle ride on a hot summer’s night and the stares he’d received as he made his way to the library had set a low burning arousal deep in his belly which continued apace as he was walking up the stairs to Finch’s desk.

Finch was sitting at his monitor, and when he heard the thread of John’s feet, his heart leapt in his throat. He did not know what to expect but his jaw fairly dropped when he finally turned, in a deliberately slow motion, to see John arrive.

The jeans were frayed, old and tight. The top button of the fly was undone and the jeans were riding so low on John’s hips that there was no doubt that he was going commando. The slim line of fine dark hairs making its way down from John’s navel screamed for Harold to run a finger over it. John’s jeans were bunched up on a pair of scuffed heavy motorcycle boots with metal studs.

John’s left arm was covered with an angry black inking of a bird being devoured by an angry python that snaked its way around John’s arm, the bird’s beak right at the top of John’s shoulder. The ex-op’s right arm was adorned by a wide studded-leather band at the bicep and another at the wrist. A tight black leather vest was left opened, unbuttoned and the vast expanse of John’s hairless chest was in plain view. He was bare-headed but wearing a pair of mirror aviator shades.

He looked much younger than his age, extremely sexy and slightly menacing.  The image was so convincing and so hot that Harold could not even utter a single word, his mouth opening and closing a few times, his hand making a useless up-and-down movement as though he was about to reach for John.  “I gather I pass your inspection, Harold?” John said, lowering his voice to a sexy purr, coming to lean back in a wide stance, his butt resting on Harold’s desk, in front of the monitors, legs on either side of his boss, in the scant foot of space Harold had left when he’d pushed his chair back to see John arrive. He then proceeded to set one foot on Harold’s chair seat while waiting for his boss to answer.

Harold could smell the leather and the light sweat John had worked up during his ride; it made him light-headed and it dried his throat. His cheeks were burning and he did not know where to look or where to put his hands, so he placed them sagely in his lap.  “Perfectly convincing,” he said when he could finally utter a few words. “I have no doubt you will be able to play the part.” And of its own volition, one of Finch’s fingers lifted and traced the snake up John’s arm to his shoulder, which made John shudder and his own breath catch. “What’s this? You didn’t…” asked Harold, awed by the beauty of the artwork. “It’s a removable tattoo, Harold, I had it made when I left here this morning by a guy I used to know in the old days, who owed me a favour. It should disappear within a month.” To which Harold almost replied “how unfortunate”, but did not.

“Well, Mr. Reese,” said Harold, gathering his wits, “as they say in the parlance, we’re losing daylight! I guess now’s the time for you to throw yourself in the wolf’s den.”

“I think I’d better go, Harold, you’re starting to mix your metaphors”, answered John with a smirk and a knowing smile.  “I’ve got my ear bud so if you need me, you know what to do.”

“Of course, Mr. Reese, I’ll be with you every step of the way, don’t forget! Oh, and don’t bother coming to the library before or after your shift at the bar – I’m sure they will keep you busy enough and it will give you a chance to catch up on your sleep. I can make arrangements with our little extended team if another number shows up in the meantime. I’d like it if you could put all your attention to settling this matter so it can be despatched rapidly.”

“Sure, Finch,” concluded Reese as he walked down the long corridor of the library, not knowing that Harold was watching his departing figure with undisguised longing. Harold also was unable to resist going to stand at the window to see John leave in a cloud of dust after having made a wheelie with his roaring beast of a motorcycle. Sighing, Finch then returned to his monitors, ready to lend a hand to his associate if need be, but first, he had another pressing need to take care of.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John starts working at the Gyrfalcon while Finch searches high and low for information into the enigma that is Fred Wendle, the owner of the leather bar

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leather bar environment - might not be everybody's cuppa; a bit of smut, not much, but with an OC - unresolved sexual tension (what else is new!)

  
 

The bar was still sparsely populated when John arrived. He was directed to the owner who was in the stockroom talking with another employee. The man was a former boxing heavyweight champion who towered over John and everybody else in the bar. At 6 foot 6 inches, he had thighs like tree trunks and biceps bigger than John’s own thighs. Reese was very impressed. But Wendle appeared pleasant and after having had the tour of the facilities, John realized that his employees appeared to like him and to enjoy working there.  He directed John to have a meal and a beer with him at the restaurant before starting his shift and while they were both eating, he explained his duties which John realized he would be able to do with his eyes closed. That would leave him enough time to hunt around for possible problems.

“You play your cards right and we might have an opening for a full-time position on the floor or behind the bar,” added Wendle, putting his large and heavy hand on John’s shoulder. “Sure, boss,” said Reese, turning to go down to the stockroom and start his shift.

The next two hours passed quickly – bringing cases of beer up to the bar along with trays of just-washed glasses, cases of dishes and produce in back to the restaurant, and replenishing the bathrooms with soap, toilet paper, paper towels and the like, and stocking the counter in the sauna and massage rooms with condoms, lube, towels and other amenities.  This also allowed him to place cameras in various areas, giving Finch a clear view of most rooms in the building.

“Anything interesting going on Finch,” asked John as he was coming down one of the corridors, making sure nobody could hear him.

“No, Mr. Reese, for the time being everything appears normal – a few patrons in the restaurant, a handful at the main bar, one client getting a hand job in the massage room and two others very busy in the steam room though I have to say there is so much steam in there that there could be a hundred of them and I would not be able to see anything more… not that I especially want to see anything, if you catch my drift…” added Finch in a desultory tone. “Spying on people having steamy sex is not really my idea of a pleasant Friday evening,” he added.

“Well, Finch, we all have our crosses to bear… I did not especially want to spend mine being groped by a bunch of leather men myself,” said Reese making a quick evading two-step to disentangle himself from one big guy coming out of the bathroom and intent on grabbing his butt.

A few more hours of the same running back and forth between the stockroom and the various areas of the building had Reese working up a sweat and looking forward to the end of his shift. By one o’clock the bar was full of men playing pool, drinking and talking. The atmosphere was getting more charged by the minute and in every corner of the room others were engaged in various sexual acts. John kept seeing guys going through a door at the back of the bar – an area he hadn’t yet been asked to bring anything to.

“What’s the room at the back?” he asked the barman, while he was emptying a case of beer mugs on the counter. “Oh, that’s the dungeon,” he replied to which John said “Do I need to bring anything there?”

“Nah, unless you really want an eyeful, better leave the guys there to do their own thing. You’ll only need to go in at closing time for clean-up duty,” he added.

While making another run to the sauna and the massage room, he asked Finch if he should install a camera there too. “Might as well, Mr. Reese, if we want to make sure we cover all angles…”

So the next time he had a lull in his duties, he passed by the door and quickly entered the room. It was almost pitch black and all he could hear was moans and whimpers and encouragements from what seemed to be a lot of different voices. When his eyes grew accustomed to the room, he saw that at least three slings were installed from the ceiling, around which small groups of men were congregating. Many of them had taken out their dick and were masturbating while watching other men being fucked in the slings. In another corner, two X-crosses had men tied to them while they were being flogged. He quickly installed the two small cameras high up and went out of the room without anyone having noticed him.

“All cameras are in place Finch, though I don’t think these guys have any ulterior motives… they’re probably much too busy to think about anything else.  I’ll have to try and talk to Wendle and wiggle more information from him at some point.”

Reese’s shift ended at four o’clock, one hour after the bar had closed. Washing and disinfecting the floors, wiping surfaces, cleaning the bathrooms reminded Reese how happy he was not to have to do that for a living.

His shift over, he went home to his own condo, took a long hot shower and fell into bed as the day was coming up.

The next few days were pretty much the same, except for one fight which John helped break up, and for which the owner thanked him profusely for his quick assessment of the situation.

For his part, Finch continued making inquiries into Wendle’s finances, insurance coverage, business associates and family history. The slate appeared clean, the man having also had very few amorous entanglements. He had lived for a little over two years  with a Claude Simon, a Franco-American dancer from Maine who had come up to New York to dance in gay bars, but the relationship had ended three years previously and since then, there appeared to be no other love interest.

Finch’s frustration knew no bounds as he kept looking everywhere to find the source of the threats.  Two other numbers had come in and he had had to call upon detective Fusco’s services as well as those of Ms. Morgan, but both situations had been resolved quickly and painlessly. But this Wendle conundrum was still unresolved and he could feel John’s annoyance at having to keep working at the bar as well.

As John was stepping outside to walk to his bike a week later, Wendle called up to him. “John, come here a minute, I have a proposition for you,” he said, which made John turn on his heels and walk back to the inside of the bar.

“Can you tend bar?” Wendle asked, to which John said that he had done it, many years ago but since it was mainly beer and shots, it should not be a problem.

“Why, boss? I mean I didn’t think I’d get promoted this quickly!” said John, keeping his voice low but his manner as non-threatening as he could.  

“I have to go to upstate New York for the next two days to settle a matter with regard to my mother’s estate and with Bill, our regular bartender, still recuperating from his pneumonia, the bar would be unmanned since I usually take over when Bill’s away.

“Sure, no problem.  Can I drop you off anywhere?” John asked as he made to go. “Thanks, I live right above the ‘shop’” answered Wendle.

“Really? Don’t you find it restrictive to live and work in the same place?”

“Not really, and it lets me keep an eye on the premises… and I don’t have far to go if I want to bring someone back to my place,” said Wendle, looking at John meaningfully. “Wanna come up for a beer?”

“Thanks, but I’m bushed and I have to get home” said John, making a quick exit. “Do I need to get in earlier if I’m going to be working the bar?”

“No, 10 p.m. is good.”  As he made his way out, John clicked the comm link on and said “Finch, you there?”

“Always Mr. Reese. It’s nice to see you’re making friends, and that your boss is… pleased with you!” he said, and John could hear him smiling. “Ah Finch, what can I say, I’m irresistible that way. By the way, did you hear that he’s going upstate tomorrow? Is that an avenue we should investigate?

“Yes Mr. Reese, I’ll get on it. Now, try to get some sleep – I honestly don’t know how people can keep those hours on a regular basis,” added Finch, to which Reese replied “Indeed, especially as you keep such reasonable hours yourself” with a bark of laughter.

“Well, good night, Mr. Reese,” said Finch as he closed the link. “Good night Finch,” replied John softly.

***

On the first day he was due to tend the bar, John arrived for his first shift with a few minutes to spare, set himself up and started chatting amiably with the few patrons who had arrived barely a few minutes after him. The evening passed quickly if hotly since the air conditioning was not working. John was very busy serving beer, shots and the odd mixed drink. The music was deafening and by midnight the heat had become almost unbearable. He could feel the sweat pouring down his flanks and his leather vest was drenched. Finally, fed up with the leather sticking to his back, he simply removed it and threw it under the counter. Despite the no-smoking laws in place, cigars, cigarettes and joints were passed around so there was a haze of smoke hanging above their heads. A low hum of sexual tension was roiling everywhere.

John had had a few beers, and done a few shots of tequila with a bunch of clients who, he had been told, were friends of the owner and who also owned another bar nearby. As is customary, bar owners always receive special treatment when they visit other bars and John felt it would have been bad manners not to do the same.  It was about two o’clock when he checked the time and realized that he still had two hours before his shift ended.

He’d spoken to Finch a few times in the evening, but Finch was distracted, dealing with another number, and he had not been able to find out if more information had been found on their Wendle guy. A very tall, very muscled guy with a dark short beard, in his forties, was sitting at the bar and a much younger one was humping against him, in time with the music. Both men were extremely attractive and appeared lost in their passion, the taller one having tangled his hand in the curly hair of his companion and was kissing him avidly. John did not want to stare but he found the whole thing extremely arousing.

A few minutes later, he went to the back of the bar to get towels and coasters, and crossed paths with the boy who was replenishing the bar that night. Slim, blonde, and with a pair of the darkest eyes John had ever seen, the boy had been flirting with him ceaselessly since the beginning of his shift.

“Hey, there,” he said to John, crowding him a bit… and in a few seconds he was pushed against the wall, John’s form towering over him, his lips crushing the boy’s who had lost no time and had his hand down the front of John’s jeans. “Come on, come on, come on…” the boy kept saying as he kissed and licked at John’s chest. He was humping against John’s hip, who was doing the same, and in a matter of minutes, they both came, John’s orgasm tearing through him like a freight train.

“Aarrghhhh, fuuuck,” he growled as the last tremors shot through him, which immediately brought Finch’s inquisitive voice “Mr. Reese, Mr. Reese, are you OK? Mr. Reese?”  

“Aawww Finch, shit, yeah yeah I’m OK.  Sheesh, give a guy a break…” as he leaned against the wall as the boy, giving him a last quick tug, went back to his business. John was still trying to get himself back into his jeans, using a spare towel to wipe himself quickly. 

“Oh, oh, Mr. Reese” he then heard a mortified Finch say, “I apologize, I’m very sorry, I hadn’t realized…” John sighed. He’d completely forgotten that he was standing just in front of one of those cameras he’d planted a few days before.  He gave a shaky little wave to where he knew the camera to be installed, and made his way back to the bar.

“Well, Finch, you send me in the wolf’s den, as you said, these things are bound to happen…” he added, another tremor running through his tall frame.

“No problem, Mr. Reese, it’s all part of the job,” said Finch curtly before closing the link.

“Finch? Finch? You there?” asked John, but receiving no reply he went back to his task at hand, mystified that Finch would have cut the communication so quickly.

That night, since as bartender, he had the responsibility for the whole operation, he was not able to close the building before 6 a.m. before the clean-up crew had finished its work and all the money entries had been tallied and placed in the safe with a note to Wendle about everything that had gone on in the evening.

Too tired to go back to his loft and a bit woozy from the beer and the shots he’d taken, John left the bike behind the building and made his way on foot to the library. He knew he could crash on one of the couches and he’d left an extra pair of jeans and a tee-shirt for his next day’s shift.  Hopefully Finch would not arrive too early and he would be able to get a few good hours of sleep.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Third chapter of The Gyrfalcon series - next and final chapter coming in the next few days.
> 
> In which the matter of Fred Wendle's threats finally gets resolved... and in which other things also get, somewhat, resolved.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Smut, unresolved sexual tension, a not-happy Mr. Finch and an unrepentant John - I seem to enjoy frustrating Mr. Finch... serves him right for being so cute and so irresistible. John put me up to it - it's not my fault!

Fred Wendle had arrived in Saratoga, at the office of his mother’s lawyer for the opening of the will. His younger brother was there also, and their aunt Giselle, their mother’s younger sister. Earlier that day, Fred had gone to his mother’s house, to which he still had the key, and had picked up a few boxes of items his brother had left for him: sports equipment, photos, a ring which had belonged to his long-deceased father, and his collection of old hockey cards.  His brother had been in charge of packing up everything after their mother’s death and time was of the essence since he was anxious to get back to his restaurant in Biloxi, and his wife and two young daughters.  Their mother had had all her papers in order and she had already decided that the house would be sold through a real-estate agent, and the contents of the house was being sent to a local auctioneer, the money to be separated in three equal parts between the two brothers and Mrs. Wendle’s sister.  The money from the sale of the house itself would be separated between Fred and his brother, but both brothers knew that it was not worth a fortune.

Fred and his brother had always gotten along very well and they were wondering why the lawyer had asked them both to be present at the opening of the will, along with their aunt since they all had copies of the will and already knew its contents.  They’d both decided to spend their last night in the house they’d grown up with and had planned to bring a few bottles of wine and order pizza. They’d take the time that evening to listen to old videos of family vacations and reminisce on their life with their parents, now both deceased, and their sister who had passed away in a boating accident a few years back.

They were all very surprised when the lawyer told them that there was an additional hidden codicil to the will, which Mrs. Wendle had asked the lawyer to not include in the main will but to read upon her death to the three protagonists. Both men were astounded to learn that their mother had been the owner of a large tract of land which had been in her family for a long time – neither of them even knew about it, though the sister was aware of the situation since she had sold her half of it to their mother many years before when she had had money problems and needed access to a quick influx of ready cash.  She had always thought she would be among the beneficiaries since half the land had originally belonged to her -- instead of only benefiting from a third of the sale of the furniture left in the house. She was incensed, but not really surprised, when it was confirmed by the lawyer that she would not even have access to at least one third of the money which Mrs. Wendle had made when she’d sold the plot, the previous year, to a real-estate developer who wanted to build high-end condominiums. So immediately after the will was read, she departed without even saying goodbye to her nephews or thanking the lawyer.

Still reeling from the news, both men went to run errands for the rest of the day, agreeing to meet that night at 8 p.m. at the house.  After both arriving on time, they sat in the living room, set up the video machine and as soon as their pizza arrived, they started watching those old movies, reminiscing, drinking wine and talking late into the night.  When the fire had died down in the fireplace, around one a.m., they both rolled out their sleeping bags and promptly fell asleep.

**

Meanwhile, in New York, Finch had finally hit on some tiny bit of information which would prove to be useful in his quest to find out more about Fred Wendle.  A few weeks earlier, a Giselle Wendle, who appeared to be related to him had made a large withdrawal in cash from her bank account, leaving it in the red, which had sent a pinged notice via email from the branch in Saratoga to the bank’s head office in Des Moines, Iowa. Without that transmission, Finch would never have been able to find anything since she’d withdrawn the money in person and in cash. Her internet footprint was almost non-existent since she did not own a computer, only transacted through her bank in person, had no credit card, no cell phone and no car. She also appeared to pay for all her purchases in cash. But Finch’s painstaking research had finally wielded that small nugget of information and, armed with it, he was able to trace a call made at about that same time from a public phone across the street from the bank to a Dimitri Yashnovski, also from Saratoga, who had a very long police record for racketeering, armed assault and auto theft. Armed with that information, the Machine had also shown Finch the woman, appearing to be in her late sixties, shabbily dressed and hunched over, coming out of the telephone booth thanks to a judiciously-placed camera at the entrance of the bank and panning across the street.

A quick call to Carter to have her look into that Yashnovski person, had yielded more information and, deciding to take matters in his own hands to finally settle the matter,  he’d arranged to go with her to Saratoga in the morning to follow up on those leads and try to see what they could find in terms of information. He would go in as an insurance adjuster and Carter would visit the local police station. But before that, they would pay a visit to Fred Wendle’s mother’s house to see if they might be able to speak to the neighbours and get more details about the family.

Having left very early in the morning, armed with a very large coffee for Carter and a green tea for Finch, it was around 9 a.m. when they turned in to Rosedale Street, where the Wendle house was located. They figured they had about a mile or so to drive when they saw three fire trucks making their way at breakneck speed up the street, Carter at the wheel having to move out of the way very quickly so their car would not be rammed by the large red behemoths barreling down the street. The smoke was thick and as they got closer to the house, debris of glass, wood and other materials littered the street.  Their fear materialized when they asked a passerby what had happened and he told them that the Wendle house had blown up at dawn that morning. Parking on a nearby lawn, Carter ran out to speak to the fire chief who, she could see, was directing his men around the perimeter. Finch followed quickly but at a more sedate space allowing for his physical restrictions especially with all the debris on the ground.

“Do we know what happened?” asked Carter, barely able to speak because of the thick smoke that was still coming out of the structure.

“All we know so far, is that the house blew up around 6 a.m. – our inspectors will be going over everything with a fine tooth comb and try to identify if an accelerant was used, but that won’t be for a few days, Mrs…? said the fire chief without looking at her.

“Joss Carter, NYPD,” she said, taking out her shield. In the meantime Finch had arrived and was standing with Carter when he saw a man wrapped in a heavy grey blanket sitting on a stretcher with a mask over his face a short distance away.

“Detective Carter, I think we may have a witness over there. I’ll go and see what I can find out”, he added as he turned on his heels and walked toward the ambulance.

By the time Finch got closer, the man had removed the mask and was trying to breathe on his own. Seeing a policeman approach the stretcher at the same time, Finch held back and waited to hear their conversation. He learned that the man, Albert Wendle (whom he knew was Fred Wendle’s brother) had just left the house and gotten into his car earlier that morning when the house had blown up, toppling his car over and sending debris, fire and smoke all over the place.

“Talk about good timing… my brother had just left a few minutes before me because he wanted to get a head start driving back to New York.  I was not in so much of a hurry because my plane for Biloxi was only leaving at 9 a.m. this morning.  I mean, if we’d stuck around as we were supposed to do, to have breakfast here, we’d both be dead!” he said, the disbelief clear on his face.

After waiting around and speaking with a few other witnesses, Carter and Finch visited the local police department and the lawyer’s office.

At around one p.m., they started on their way back to New York City.  It now appeared clear that the large amount of money paid to Yashnovski had been for an assassination attempt by Giselle Wendle on both her nephews in order to gain their part of the inheritance. Carter had given all the information to the local police who were on their way to arrest and interrogate the man, and arrest Giselle Wendle.

Finch was very happy that the case was finally solved.  He could not wait to tell Mr. Reese that his days at the leather bar were over, and none too soon in his opinion.

**

A tired Finch arrived at the library around 4 p.m. that afternoon, intent on reaching John before he made his way to the bar. He did not want to call him too early, however, because he was not sure at what time John had gone to bed.

As he was approaching his desk, he heard a groan which stopped him in his track. He did not think it could be Reese since he’d told him not to bother coming to the library, so the only other possibility was that the library’s security had been breached. All he could think of was Root and it froze the blood in his veins.

He kept himself very still and when he heard nothing else, he started walking very slowly toward the area where he thought the noise had come from, which appeared to be near where his bank of monitors was located.

But as he entered the room silently, he was overwhelmed by what he saw: the late afternoon sun was coming in the room, bathing John in a golden glow. He was sprawled on the beat-up old couch, his right arm folded behind his head, his left hand holding his very hard dick, one leg up on the side of the couch, the other extended on the floor. His eyes were closed and the muscles of his stomach were rippling and making moving shadows on his golden skin.

And with a sudden, loud intake of breath he came in a glorious arc that shot over his head, his stomach bunching, moaning loudly with a sound that reverberated in Harold’s groin. Then, with a low-throated growl, he squeezed himself and wiped his hand on his stomach and sighed profoundly. Finch was mesmerised but the last thing he wanted was to be caught in his voyeuristic exercise so he backed slowly to the top of the stairs and retraced his steps loudly, coughing and trying to make as much as he could, leaving John enough time to make himself more presentable.

But when he arrived at his monitors again, John hadn’t moved, his angry-red dick softening in his hand, a very pleased Cheshire-grin on his lips, his eyes half-closed and the wet traces of his cum still on his stomach. “Harold,” he said in his velvety purr, “I didn’t expect you at this late hour, I thought you’d decided to take a day off! You almost had quite a show there…” adding a long cat-like stretch for good measure.

By then Harold’s eyes were blazing, his mouth was set in a thin, pursed line and a pulse could clearly be seen thrumming at his temple. “Don’t flatter yourself, Mr. Reese. I have better things to do than watch you pleasure yourself. I don’t know for whose benefit you’re doing this, but don’t go overboard on my account. And by the way, we have solved the situation with Mr. Wendle, no thanks to you since you appear to have been otherwise occupied.”

“At 6 a.m. this morning I was driving to Saratoga with detective Carter and we were able to ascertain that Mr. Wendle’s aunt was where the threat was coming from. She wanted to eliminate her nephews to get her hands on an inheritance,” said Harold in the low monotone he used when he was angry but had to hold himself in check.

“I must say that it’s a good thing this whole situation has been resolved because honestly, you are in danger of becoming someone I barely would recognize. And I do not mean that in a good way!” he added curtly.

By then, he was standing almost over John who lifted his eyes and looked at him guilelessly from under his overly long and curled dark lashes. He was so hot, and so sexy, that Finch could have screamed. “And you might want to have a shower Mr. Reese. You stink of beer, cigarettes and god knows what else!” said Finch making a moue of disgust and turning his heels to go back to his desk, moving things about loudly and banging items around after he’d sat down.

“Harold, don’t be like that…I mean, sometimes, a guy just can’t help himself!” said John so low that Finch could barely hear him, each syllable reverberating low in his spine and making him so hard he could barely see straight. Harold did not know if he was more angry at John for his attitude, or at himself for being so irresistibly attracted to him. By then John had stood up, slowly put himself back inside his ever-so-tight jeans, and was running one hand on Finch’s desk while scratching his stomach with the other, his eyes still at half-mast.

“You’re disgusting, Mr. Reese. I would suggest you have that shower and go home to your place to sleep it off. I hope you are still drunk and that your attitude can be ascribed to the influence of the dregs of society you have been associating with for the past week or so. Do not bother hanging around here today, I will not need you, and frankly, I would rather not set eyes on you in your condition!”

“You sound like my mother, Harold, and believe me, that’s not a compliment,” said Reese, imbuing Harold’s name with extra syllables that stretched and made strange things happen to Harold’s stomach.

“Go!” was all Finch could say, with a finger he could hardly keep from trembling, pointing to the bathroom installed at the back of the library.

Finch used the time John was in the shower to regain control of himself. He was hovering between disgust and attraction, between joining John in the shower and making mad passionate love with him in the stall and giving him a dressing down that would be as aggressively cutting, hurtful and dismissive as only he could do. He was both repelled and aroused. 

The cameras in the bar had confirmed that John had no qualms about having sex with men, even though he’d only had the one run-in with the blonde boy. But Finch could see that John was completely at ease with gay men and in a gay environment.  But he still did not know how John felt about him and he was very reluctant to let him see his attraction and his longing. An intensely private man, Finch was uncomfortable with overt displays of affection and after the losses he had encountered in his life, one more rejection, especially from someone he was so attracted to as he was to John, would be devastating.

A few minutes later John emerged wearing only a pair of black sweatpants, again worn dangerously low on his hips, a towel around his neck. He threw a tee-shirt on the corner of Finch’s desk.  He did not speak but went to stand by the window, looking at the city below. Absentmindedly his left hand went inside his pants where he scratched himself desultorily.

“Really, Mr. Reese??? My mother used to say that if I did not stop playing with it, it would eventually fall off! I’m sure you wouldn’t want that to happen to you now, would you?” said Finch, almost beside himself at John’s brazenness.

John turned slowly and went to stand behind Harold, bending low, putting his mouth very close to Finch’s ear and said, in a menacing tone: “You looking for me, Finch? You have a problem with me? Anything you want to say? Hmmm?”

And that did it. Finch snapped and, grabbing the towel at John’s neck in a twisting gesture, he pulled Reese close to him and said in a low growl: “Mr. Reese, I’ve just about had it with your sexual innuendoes. If you want, or need, something, I would advise you to say it clearly. Man up! I do not deal well with vague offers and suggestive comments. So if you have an itch you want scratched, tell me and we’ll take care of it. But I will tell you one thing,” he added, squeezing the towel around John’s neck again. “I do not share, and I do not play well with others – so there will be no running around behind my back.  You want me, you will get me, but you will get me alone and you will readjust your attitude! Do I make myself clear?”

Finch was out of breath and honestly, he had surprised even himself with his outburst. John had not moved or said anything as Finch had let his grip on John’s towel go. Both were waiting, barely breathing, letting Harold’s words sink.

And then, slowly, Finch felt John’s mouth make his way gently to the corner of his mouth, where he placed a soft, chaste kiss. And John’s arms wrapped around him from behind.  And with that, Finch let out the breath he realized he’d been holding for a long time, the tension in his neck finally letting up, and he let his head fall back on John’s shoulder.

“Oh, Harold, I thought this would never happen,” said John, contritely. “I was so frustrated that I think I used my stint at Fred’s bar push the agenda for me. But you know, I’m not sorry!”

“Neither am I John, neither am I,” said Finch.

“Give me an hour so I can get my bike back at the bar – and give my resignation to Fred – and I’ll be back to fetch you. Then I’ll take you home,” said John, his voice full of unexplored possibilities. He grabbed the tee-shirt he’d dropped on the corner of Finch’s desk and made his way out of the library.

“B… but…,” sputtered Finch, wanting to hold John back and tell him he did not want to go back to the loft on that beast of a motorcycle. “Oh, well, why not!” he finally told himself. After all, it would not be the first time he hitched a ride on a motorbike. And the thought of holding John’s body between his thighs, his arms wrapped around that lovely ribcage did things to his body that Finch did not mind at all.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John gives Finch a ride on his motorcycle, and Finch gives John a ride on his... well. you'll see!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> last chapter of the Gyrfalcon finally up. All's well that ends well.
> 
> lots of smut... so you're warned - if it's not your cuppa... pass your way.
> 
> now moving on to other things - probably a few short angsty h/c pieces for a change

_And the thought of holding John’s body between his thighs, his arms wrapped around that lovely ribcage did things to his body that Finch did not mind at all._

Thirty minutes later, John swung by the library on his bike as Finch was waiting for him at the door.

“Are you going to be OK with this Finch,? asked John, somewhat concerned about Finch’s physical limitations and the size of the bike.

“Mr. Reese, will you stop playing mother hen? I had no problem with it if you’ll remember, the last time I had to ride on one of those engines of death with one of our numbers, and I’m sure you can handle your engine as well as that young man did…”

John huffed “I’m sure I drive much betterer!” to which Finch added “Betterer indeed, Mr. Reese, I have no doubt,” as he sat gingerly behind John, trying not to crowd him too much and tying the helmet John had handed him.

“Now Finch, we have to ride this thing as a single entity – if I bend to one side, you must follow my lead. I once took a girl on a ride and when I leaned in to take a curve, she thought she’d help and leaned the other way thinking she needed to rebalance the load… good thing we were going slowly because we ended up in a ditch. Had I been driving any faster, we could have been killed!”

“Yes Mr. Reese, I know all about centrifugal force… I understand,” said Finch rolling his eyes and firmly wrapping both arms around John’s waist. “Is that OK?”

“Yes Finch, it’s absolutely perfect, but wait…” said John, taking one of Harold’s hands and bringing it lower to cup his groin, “Ahh, that’s even better,” he ended up with a bark of laughter, which was answered by Finch’s “Hmmm, yes, betterer Mr. Reese, I’m sure!” Reese didn’t add anything but the slight shaking of his shoulders told Finch he’d scored a point.

And so they left the library with Finch hanging on to John for dear life and enjoying every minute of the ride. About halfway, they stopped at a red light and a fire truck came to a stop right beside the motorcycle. When the driver looked around at the motorcycle and saw what was going on, he tooted his horn so loud Finch almost jumped right off.  Face burning, he looked up and saw the driver wink at him and give him the thumbs up. Mortified, but ever so polite, he waved back and luckily the light changed and they were on their way.

The vibration of the bike coupled with having John firmly planted between his outstretched thighs played havoc with Finch’s arousal.  He could feel that John was in the same predicament and he could not help himself… he had to give John’s dick a squeeze ever so often just for the pleasure of feeling the girth and the heat of it in his hand. He’d run his finger ever so gently around the shape of the big mushroom head sneaking down John’s thigh and could even feel some wetness seeping through the material of Reese’s pants. For his part, John would arch his back and rub his ass against Harold’s incredibly hard dick, and Harold had no other choice but grind back against him at the risk of cumming right then and there. By the time they arrived at John’s loft, Finch had an erection he could have spun on.

John got off the bike and then waited nearby while Finch uncomfortably and painstakingly disembarked as well. They made their way up to John’s place in silence, the taller man keeping his hand on Finch’s lower back to protect and direct him, as he was wont to do most often when they walked down the city’s streets.

John opened the door to the loft and Finch followed him. John had no sooner closed the door that Finch turned on his heel, grabbed John and pushed him against the wall, grinding his hard-on against John’s and scrabbing at John’s clothes.  “Aww yeahhhh… F…Finch please…!” said John, trying to do the same, one hand around Harold’s neck, his tongue trying to make his way down Harold’s throat where the heat was almost unbearable, his other hand trying to undo the jacket, the vest, the shirt... and losing patience. “Fuck! Finch… how many damned buttons are there…. Sheeeesh!”

“Way too many, John! said Finch breathlessly, “but we’ll have to slow this down a bit anyway if I want to last for a bit,” he added, trembling and putting his forehead against John’s chest, in order to catch his breath… “As the song goes, Mr. Reese, I ain’t as good as I once was…”

“Maybe not, Finch, but I’m sure you’re as good once as you ever were?” John rejoindered, laughing softly and hugging Finch while kissing him softly on his forehead. “Let’s get more comfortable shall we? And maybe you can give me a course on Buttons 101… I tell you, I’m this close to tearing everything off your back and letting the buttons fall where they may!”

Harold smirked and, moving back a bit, started to undo the buttons himself. “Shall we move this closer to the bed?” he asked… I fear I’m a bit too old for what we used to call a ‘knee-trembler’ which would probably end with the both of us sprawled inelegantly on the floor… there’s a lot to be said for the comfort of a bed, Mr. Reese! And keeping you in Pratesi sheets and Frette blankets and comforters has to serve at least some other purpose than your personal comfort!”

“Well, Finch, I’m worth my weight in gold, didn’t you know?” said John, to which Harold answered “Well, we’re about to find out aren’t we?” which gained him something that sounded between a snort and raspberry.

Finch was still sitting on the side of the bed, having removed his shoes, his socks, his pants, his jacket, his vest and his tie. He was working on his shirt, having undone his cufflinks and almost finished unbuttoning his shirt when John walked around the bed and came to stand right by him. Of course, he’d only had to shuck his sneakers and his sweatpants. He was in the process of removing his tee-shirt when Harold stopped him.

“Come here,” he gestured to right in front of him, between his legs, which John quickly did. “I want to unwrap this beauty like a Christmas present,” said Harold as he lifted the tee-shirt ever so slowly, letting it catch lightly and caress John’s dick as it went up. He could see John’s dick twitch and a dark grey stain appear on the light grey material. Bending slightly, he mouthed the head of John’s dick over the material, blowing on it and wrapping his lips around it. This tore a moan from John’s lips as his hips canted roughly against Harold’s mouth.

“Hmmm, so eager, Mr. Reese, aren’t we?” said Finch in his calm, quiet low voice that always drove John crazy. He always thought that Finch would have been able to make him cum just by speaking in that low tone and he promised himself to put it to the test one day during a stake-out.

But just quickly as that, the heat of Harold’s mouth was gone and a hand had started gently caressing John’s balls under the tee-shirt, weighing them, moving them around in the silky soft hanging sac, scratching gently behind them. John whimpered, opening his legs slightly to leave Harold more room. “Ahhh, don’t I have you where I want you now? I hope you’re having as much fun as I am,” said Harold, using his other hand to grab his own dick through his silk boxers. “Hmmm” was all John could supply as an answer.

“And now, for the main event,” sayd Finch, almost fervently, which made John huff with laughter even as horny as he was. And Finch lifted the tee-shirt over and above John’s considerable hard-on where a pearl of pre-cum bubbled at the top and started slowly dribbling down only to be stopped mid-way by Harold’s pointy tongue which glided all the way up to the head of John’s dick which was then summarily engulfed in Finch’s hot mouth.

John closed his eyes as his knees almost threatened to give out, his hands gliding down, one to Harold’s head, the other to the base of his dick which it squeezed hard to keep him from cumming right then and there.

“Hmmmm,” growled Finch, batting away at John’s hand while his blue eyes went up and his eyebrows came down. “John, let me…, I want to taste you… I’ve wanted this for so long.”

“Really, Harold?” said John in his velvety purr. “As if you didn’t know…” answered Finch, returning to his task at hand, his hot tongue swirling around the head of John’s 8-incher which to Finch felt like steel encased in hot velvet. He took it again, all the way down his gullet and the efforts he made not to gag only served to squeeze its prisoner and John couldn’t help it… he came, gushing down Harold’s throat, moaning and gasping as he did so: “Oooohh… ohh… shhhh…ssssorrry…F..Finch” when he could catch his breath, looking contritely at Harold while Finch hummed contentedly around John’s softening dick. He then let it out with a soft plop, wrapping his hand around it and giving it a few sweet tugs at the end, helping the skin fold back around the ever-so-sensitive head.

“That was absolutely lovely… and I think it surprised even you, John,” said a smiling Finch looking up over his glasses at John who had the good grace to blush a bit. And then he took John dick back in his hand, retracted the skin from the head and ever so gently sucked a few times at it, running his tongue between John’s foreskin and the head, the pointy end of his tongue sliding over the slit. “Stop, stop, stop, Finch… tooo… too sensitive…” which made Finch smile happily as he relinquished his toy for a few seconds.

“Oh, Finch, that was just too… I wanted to… I…”

“John, don’t you see, that was just perfect. It took off the edge for you and now I’ll be able to fuck you as long and as hard as I want and you’ll last longer!”

“Bbbutt… Finch…I…. really??”

“No buts, Mr. Reese… or rather… some butt, indeed,” said Harold, using John’s last name as a term of endearment. “Now be a good boy and lie down for me, on your stomach please.”

Harold’s tone of voice and his taking command of the circumstances only served to make John growing hard again. He was amazed at how assertive and sexy Finch could be, and the thought of being manhandled by him did all sorts of strange things to his insides and brought a low hum of anticipation in his lower back. He climbed on the bed, arranging his long body on the mattress, on his belly as Finch had directed. Harold gave him a pillow to place under him so his butt would be lifted a bit, and he arranged John’s impossibly long legs on either side of him. Sitting back on his haunches, he took a few moments to enjoy the view. John’s long muscled back, the faint marks of his scars, the hollows at the start of his buttocks, the ever so fine hairs that lined those firm mounds and the cleft that hid the prize Harold intended to take.

John sighed and moved around a bit to make himself more comfortable. “Do you plan to watch for much longer Finch, should I start on my own here?”

“Patience, patience, my friend… haven’t you heard the story of the tortoise and the hare?” said Harold, but warmth seeped through every word. He proceeded to run one finger ever so slowly up and down John’s cleft a few times, which only served to have him open his legs wider, and sigh audibly. “Aww Finch, come on… do you want me to beg?”

“Well,” said Finch, letting his voice trail a bit, just to keep John guessing. “Coming, John, coming...” and taking a tube of lube which had miraculously materialized at his side, he proceeded to coat two fingers to open John up for his onslaught. Having done that and brought John perilously close to getting to the finish line early, he proceeded to slick his own dick.  Smaller than John at about 6.5 inches, and cut, he sported a large mushroom head and a slight curve that he knew would bring John to his knees in no time, or at least to the gates of heaven. Harold always prided himself on satisfying his partners with his impressive stamina and wicked strokes.

Placing himself at John’s entrance, he bent down and kissed the nape of his neck and wrapping one arm around John’s neck, he entered him in one long slow stroke until he was in, balls deep, feeling his partner’s butt against his groin. Waiting a few seconds to let John acclimatize to the invader’s presence, he then proceeded to go in and out in the most excruciatingly slow movement, letting John feel his dick all the way out, almost popping out, and all the way in again, feeling his lover’s prostate with every stroke.  After a few minutes of that sweet torture, John was beside himself. He’d moved his hips a bit to be able to reach his dick and was pulling on it in a faster counterpoint to Harold’s every stroke.

He could feel Harold’s heated skin against him and hear his raspy moans which amplified with every movement of his hips. He felt he was getting closer and closer himself. “Oh, Harold, come on, faster, please… faster!” He could feel himself beg for it. “Please, fuck me, harder… shit.. come on!!!” And he started humping back against Harold who only backed away and continued his slow stroking.

“Ease up, John, ease up. It will all be worth it when you cum. That’s it, just like that, slow and easy,” said Harold as he licked a long line up John’s back, ended at his neck, just below his ear. He nipped at his shoulder and his neck, one hand having gone around to tweak his nipple, rolling the small pebbly nub between his thumb and his index, feeling the body under him twinge and shiver with every roll.

“That’s it, let it cum, just like that, ever so sloooowly, hmmmm, don’t you feel it now John? Don’t you feel the end approaching, that sweet pain in your lower back, the heaviness in your balls? The tension that’s building up with every stroke? Are you close John?”

“Mmmm, ooooh, Harold… I’m so close now… please… awww yeahhh… that’s it… just like that… right there… ooohhh”

And with that John came, harder than he’d ever cum before, but because it had built so slowly, he felt he’d never stop, each pulsing jet bringing a paroxysm of pleasure that bordered on pain. He was shivering and trembling with every jolt, his face hidden in the pillow to muffle the noise he felt too self-conscious to let out.

Harold had cum too, flooding John’s insides with his sweet cream, his head pillowed on John’s back, a low groan making its way through his throat as his teeth clamped on John upper arm.

And as the last few tremors went through them, they slowly disentangled themselves from one another, Harold leaning over precariously to lie on his back, John turning around to lie with his head on Harold’s shoulder, his hand absentmindedly rubbing Finch’s belly.

“I could sleep for a whole day,” said John lazily, sighing happily. But Finch, prissy as always, looked at him pointedly and said “Well my dear, I think a shower is probably in order before I can get a wink of sleep… and we’ll need to change the bed… I don’t fancy sleeping in the puddle and I’m sure you don’t either. I have to say, though, that was one sweet ride,” said Finch smugly, with a soft smile directed at John.

“Nothing to fear in that department, Mr. Finch,” added John, “you sure can hold your own.”

“Well, John, in a pinch, I can always hold my own, but as you can see, I’d much rather hold someone else’s!” said a smirking Finch who then stood up and made his way to the shower he so fervently wished for.

 

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Undercover](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7834897) by [disreputabledog](https://archiveofourown.org/users/disreputabledog/pseuds/disreputabledog)




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